


Fragments of Want

by Lady_Otori



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Biting, Blow Jobs, Bruising, Drabble Collection, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Smut, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Having Thirsty Feelings About The Exarch, Hints of dominance, Marking, NSFW Prompts, Other, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Varying Levels of Explicit, mewling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-08-23 16:24:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20245813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Otori/pseuds/Lady_Otori
Summary: Desire stitched between days of duty: a series exploring love and lust in all their forms.Latest prompt: Markings[And when he trails kisses up the soft skin of the inside of your arm, you’re left to indignantly whisper,“You are distracting me.”The Exarch doesn’t answer with words, but rather with a nip of sharp teeth to the inside of your elbow that makes your knees buckle. You give in; gladly, exuberantly, like you do with nothing else, enjoying the way he bears you to the ground with rare dominance.]





	1. Buck

**Author's Note:**

> I have been taking short NSFW requests over on tumblr and a few folks asked if I could collate them here so um... please enjoy. 
> 
> These are all unashamedly thirsty.

He does not expect, you think, to be pushed against the wall with the same ferocity you approach foes for battle. 

There is barely time for a somewhat soft, somewhat eager  _ ‘ah’  _ before you kiss him with all the fire of your gift, his hands trapped between you as though they cannot decide whether to bring you closer or restore sanity to you both. You are unsure you’d let him. But you thank the Twelve because there’s no need to make the choice: in the next instant G’raha leans back fully against the wall, and your hands frame his hips with desperation in your fingers, pushing him into the cool crystal while you rest your full weight on his chest. 

Even you need to breathe; all too soon your mouth leaves his, harsh gasps against his cheek as your forehead meets his own. 

And though you should say sorry, what you say instead is, “I’m back.” 

“I-” he starts, but his lips meet yours as he speaks and there is a moment lost to it, “I noticed.” 

“I should apologise,” you reply, breathless with the way his hips are shaking under your touch. 

“Don’t,” the Exarch urges, and it is all the encouragement you need. There will be time to talk, to remonstrate and to feel the guilt you wonder that you don’t already. But in this moment the low hum of the Ocular sings in tune with the madness in your blood and you do nothing except lean back into your friend. 

You want to feel him, more of him, the tantalising hardness against your belly a temptation that his lips barely distract from. When G’raha’s kisses turn hot and open-mouthed, leaving your face to rain ecstasy on the cool skin of your neck, you think you have your chance. 

“Can I touch you?” you ask. It is with a whisper into his laid-flat ear, a caress of your voice that ends with a kiss to the fur. He shudders; you feel it in your very bones. 

“Please,” G’raha replies. “Please do.” 

Spoken with such broken want, the miqo’te’s plea brings a groan to the back of your throat that you barely restrain. When he nips sharp teeth at your collarbone the silence is breached anyway, a low moan echoing around the placid stillness of the Ocular. The noise is obscene; the way G’raha’s hips buck in response to your utterance more so. 

You waste no time with the niceties of divesting clothes. Instead your hand snakes beneath his robes, sure in its path to desire as the Exarch lets his forehead fall onto your chest. When you touch him, he is burning hot. Temptation turns to wildness when you feel the rivulet of scalding crystal winding around the length of him: it makes your own hips snap forward, bucking without conscious thought as he whimpers at the stroke of your hand. 

Your name is a chant falling from his lips, a sweet cadence that grows ragged as you draw him to his peak. You echo it - “Raha, my Raha” slips out unbidden as you sink to your knees in front of him, feeling his hands come to rest unconsciously on your shoulders.

And it is as you worship him with your hands and your mouth, there on your knees, that you feel his crystal and spoken hands grasping your hair in a rhythm older than time. That you taste true ferocity of his own, sibylline attraction as his body sings against yours. And you know, then, that you would not trade this dance for the sweetest of battles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's an aspect of desire you'd like explored please do drop me a line here or on tumblr!


	2. Impulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone in the Crystarium chanting *smut smut smut*
> 
> The prompt this time was for 'Impulse'. I enjoyed it, especially as it's kind of a counterpoint to the first.

It is sheer impulse that drives you to kiss him. There is a smudge of ink intersecting the crystal markings on his face and when he misses it for the second time your directions turn into lips against his skin, your breath coalescing on the brilliance of his cheek.

“What-” G’raha starts, but then you tilt his face with your nose and kiss him again and he falls quiet. There is barely a touch of your lips against his before you pull back, startled. 

“I’m sorry-” you choke out, appalled, but this time it is your words silenced as a crystal and a spoken hand come to pull your face back to his. You respond desperately, ardently, the hot-and-cold touch of him against your neck fanning the flames of madness you’ve sunk into until you are leaning full against him, your heartbeat playing a rhythm answered in the thrum of the Tower. 

It feels… it feels like impulse turned inevitable. It feels like something you might have done before, a long time ago, and the sensation only heightens when G’raha’s lips trace a crimson path down your neck to taste the way your pulse leaps.

There is heat in the touch of a man who has loved you for a hundred years. You think it might have driven you to this, to the dazed way you watch as the Exarch pulls back to take in your flushed face and wide pupils. 

“How I have wanted…” he murmurs, and you think  _ yes, how I have wanted, too,  _ but you can’t form the words because your voice is once again swallowed up in his kiss. It’s a kiss that has nothing of patience to it: you have blown yours, impulsively, and thrown wide the gates of your friend’s own restraint. 

You only hope you are able to control the passion that is firing through your veins. That is leading you both to the wall of the Ocular, your shoulders tense against smooth crystal as G’raha presses you into the unyielding foundation of his power. He is close enough that there’s little space for air between you and you think if he kisses you again you’ll swear off it forever. 

He does. And you revel in it, urge driving you to sink sharp teeth into his bottom lip as he moans into your mouth in a way that goes straight to your belly. Impulse, impulse you tell yourself as you watch him sink to his knees in front of you, hands gripping hips so tight they’ll leave bruises. Something you can both explain away, you reason,  _ hope _ , as G’raha presses kisses to the insides of your thighs. 

Leaves bite marks where nobody but you will see. Stakes his claim on you with lips and teeth and tongue until you slide down the wall and come apart in his arms. It is impulse that started this, you know, but it is desire that carries it forward, that gives the Exarch strength to pick you up and pin you back against the wall while he moves inside of you. You trace the ink still marking his cheek with your tongue and know, all at once, that impulse will drive you to this again. 

Just as you know you will welcome it.


	3. Burning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short! This time the prompt was for 'Burning.' I really feel that our lovely G'raha burns for the WoL.

He  _ burns  _ for you. You feel it in every crimson glance he sends in your direction, every bitten-off gasp when you move too close. Every fatal touch of his spoken skin against yours. Even his crystal corruption isn’t free from you; you’d think him feverish at the heat of the stone, except his face is already flushed and he leans away, blaming it on the balmy summer’s evening. 

You’d believe him, except you are in the Ocular, and the Crystal Tower is always cold. So you let him move a step back, as though it will do anything to quench what you know threatens to consume you both. How you are very nearly aflame for him, too.

“G’raha.” You speak his name with the hushed reverence he gives yours. 

“Yes, my friend?” 

There is little of friends between you now, close as you are in his lonely palace. But the charade is almost up, almost over as you feel the powder keg of his blush creep closer to absolution. 

“I-”

When it comes to it, you realise you don’t know how to make the offer. How to strike the match. Your words are weapons, not used to whispering soft utterances of love, and you stumble over them before you realise that though soft love could exist between you both it is not what you need. Not yet. 

For the Crystal Exarch has burned brightly for you for over a hundred years, and your inner fire spirals higher, higher at the thought of it. 

“Let me…” you say instead, closing the distance so hard-won between you. “G’raha Tia, do let me kiss you.” 

He does not need asked twice. The plea is barely past your lips before his are upon you, as soft as they look and yet hard in their fervour. And his kisses trail tempestuously down your neck before you realise you were mistaken: he was the match, and you are the fire. 

You feel it as he peels clothes from your shoulders, his hands hot as they relearn your shapes from this intimate distance. When he tests his teeth against your skin until your cries reach the Ancients. You feel it when you feel nothing else but where he touches you, and how. You  _ burn  _ for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take requests here or over on my tumblr of the same pseud!


	4. Mewl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went lyrical, huh? This time the prompt was: 
> 
> '“mewl” from the nsfw prompts seemed too good to pass up for WoLxExarch!'
> 
> And you know what, I really agreed! So here we have it.

You want to make him mewl. The thought crosses your mind at a desperately inappropriate moment - sitting in on a council to restore trade between the Crystarium and Eulmore - and you are full glad nobody can read minds, because there are things currently occupying space in your head that would make  _ Thancred  _ blush. No, nobody can read minds, but you wonder if the Crystal Exarch can read your intentions anyway. You wonder, because he takes one look at you and his ears lie flat against his head as he fights a blush. 

He mouths ‘ _ what is it?’  _ to you with such confused innocence that you are almost, but not quite, guilty at the way you watch his lips shape the silent words. You can do nothing but shake your head ruefully in reply. And it’s embarrassing, but you spend the rest of the meeting in silence, with your charged gaze directed at things that cannot read the heat in it, like the ornamental flowers or the gently shimmering crystal table you sit around. Blessedly, you’re often silent, and nobody notices that your reticence has nothing to do with your stoicism today. 

Nobody except G’raha, who is walking towards you with his practiced grace. You think you’ve gotten away with it for a split second, but then he draws closer and you see how he is rubbing his palms together shyly and it brings a flush to the back of your neck. 

“Are you… alright?” 

The hesitance tells you he is  _ deeply  _ aware of the fire that had shone through your eyes when you looked at him. The fact that he’d come to ask about it anyway… you smile slowly, watching as it lights him up from within. 

“I want-,” you begin, surely, only to end in a splutter of “-sandwiches” as Alisaie wanders past. You are uncomfortably aware that you’d been about to blurt out something obscene in the middle of the Ocular. 

G’raha looks about as bemused as you feel, but it is testament to his love for you that he nods agreeably anyway. 

“Then let us get you sandwiches,” he says, taking you by the arm and leading you towards your rooms. You pretend not to notice how Thancred watches you go, smirk clear on his face. Perhaps you hadn’t been so subtle after all, but as G’raha closes the door to your room behind you and turns around with innocence painted on his face, you find you don’t care. 

“I… I need you,” you say, and there is something beautiful in the way his lips part in pleased surprise before you take him in your arms. 

“Not sandwiches?” he gasps, and you laugh deep in your throat at the breathless amusement in his voice as you kiss down to his pulse. 

“No,” you reply, voice deep and hoarse with want, “I want to eat  _ you _ .” 

It makes him clutch at your shoulders and you feel him shudder with the full force of his small frame. Just like that, you are leading him backwards towards your bed, heedless of the sun shining through the open window; the countless hours of work and toil you both have ahead of you; the fact that Thancred has probably made some  _ comments  _ you will owe him a drink for later. And you have been gentle with him, patient with him as he has been with your touch-starved self but it’s not what you want now: G’raha reads it in your hungry eyes and possessive hands as you press him into the pillows.

He responds. Eagerly, with shining crystal skin that writhes under your exploration. There is but a moment of embarrassment as he tries to push up onto his elbows, wanting to make you feel good too: but your firm hands on his shoulders and warning nip to his spoken hip is command enough that he surrenders to your heated touch. You trail soft fingers down the outsides of his legs and follow the movement with gentle kisses until the miqo’te under your body quivers with anticipation, hips pushing up as instinct wars with shyness. 

It had surprised you, that G’raha Tia was a silent lover. Effusive in his affections for you, he is shy when it comes to expressing his own pleasures and desires; secretive, but in a way that makes you relish the conquest. 

“Raha,” you whisper in his ear, feeling the fur twitch against your face. “I want to hear you.”

“Hmm-” he begins, questioningly, but you choose that moment to drag your teeth over the inside of his thigh and it becomes a choked-off gasp of want. It’s not enough; you’re determined to make him mewl for you. Telling him would give the game up, so you simply smile against the curve of his knee as his hands reach hesitantly for your head, entangling themselves in your hair. 

It’s loving, but the soft scratch of claws against your scalp adds a spice to the sweetness and you respond with a low growl, a sound that you feel in the way his body twitches. A pitch of your body upwards until you bite down on his collarbone,  _ hard _ , your hand coming to rest on the point where his tail meets skin and you  _ pull  _ him up, up, up against you, his hardness a temptation against your belly and your other hand snaking down to claim it. 

“Love-” G’raha manages.

The title is your favourite amongst all your many appellations, but it isn’t coherency you want to hear from him and so you bite down harder, your hand growing slick with his need. 

When you do, he sings for you. It is the sound of your desire, a needy melody that goes straight to your belly until you want to hear nothing else. Heart beating to the rhythm of his mewls against your cheek, you grin, fierce, and pull him closer still. 

There is music to make.


	5. Markings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt this time was from the lovely joz-stankovich, for "Marked". Features just a hiiiiint of dominant G'raha, which is something I really want to explore more of, yes yes.

“Tough battle, aye?”

You blink as the barkeep grins at you from over the counter, sliding you a glass of the usual. Unsure what he’s referring to - _ most _of your battles are hard, but you haven’t been fighting - it’s not until you follow his gaze to your wrists as you reach for the drink that it clicks. 

_ Ah _ , you think, determined to keep your face placid. Bruises you hadn’t noticed earlier circle your wrists prominently, marking perfect skin with their frantic impermanence. You are suddenly _ deeply _glad you’d decided to cover your shoulders. And your neck.

“Always,” you offer. He seems satisfied at the answer; you’re glad he doesn’t press further, content to leave the Warrior of Darkness to their secrets. 

After all, you are not sure how you’d explain that the pressure of crystal against spoken flesh tends to leave bruises. Later, when you’ve finished your drink and returned to the Ocular under the guise of yet another important meeting, you fold your arms and pout at the Exarch as he comes forward to greet you.

“Raha,” you begin, enjoying (even through your pique) the way his eyes light up in joy, “you’ll never guess what I’ve been asked about. Again.”

He pretends innocence. It doesn’t work.

“Ah, perhaps another of your famous tales?”

Of course you’d been asked that: you get it every day. But that’s not the question and he knows it, if the dance of his gaze over your agitated arms tells you anything.

“Try again,” you press.

“If you’d like to train with the guard recruits?”

“Yes of course, I get asked that whenever I- wait, no, not today,” you correct yourself, watching as his ears aim for ambivalence. “It’s something harder to answer.”

G’raha drops the pretence, favouring you with one of his rare cheeky grins. You almost forgive him on the spot; it’s so precious to see him as his unadorned true self, unbound by his planning and his position and his worries. Almost, but not quite, as he opens his mouth and says,

“Well, I do think the answer is rather clear…”

You exhale noisily, going for annoyance but managing fond exasperation. “Clear to see, yes,” you allow. “Maybe a little _ too _ clear, if everyone from the barkeep to the mender is asking me about all these _ terrible fights _I must be getting into.” 

G’raha’s left ear swivels; it’s one of his tells, and you know he’s holding back his amusement. You want to hear it, taking a step forward and planning whether to poke him in the ribs (guaranteed to make him squeal) or tell him about how you practically ran away when Ryne asked about the bruises (good for much-coveted laughter) but he heads off the assault, coming forward to catch your forearm in his crystal hand. 

He raises your wrist to his lips, plants a kiss on the deep purple of the bruise, and just like that you forget about everything. Your attention narrows to the way his eyes leave invisible marks on your skin as he winds his gaze up to yours. And when he trails kisses up the soft skin of the inside of your arm, you’re left to indignantly whisper,

“You are _ distracting _ me.” 

The Exarch doesn’t answer with words, but rather with a nip of sharp teeth to the inside of your elbow that makes your knees buckle. You give in; gladly, exuberantly, like you do with nothing else, enjoying the way he bears you to the ground with rare dominance. Careful not to press too hard with his crystal hand - and you smile through your ardor, because G’raha Tia _ does _listen - he bends over your prone form, pushing your knees up until they touch your chest. 

Folding his arms over your bent legs, your lover grins down at you, showing teeth as you huff with feigned defiance.

“I must say, I think it’s working.” 

There is laughter in the way you shove your full weight against him. But though G’raha is small he is sturdy, and you struggle fruitlessly, enjoyably for a time until he catches your wrists in his hands and leans forward to kiss you hard. You breathe heavily into his mouth as his kiss steals all the air from you; it’s distracting enough that you miss how his hands are deftly removing the clothes from your lower half. 

In fact, you do not notice until his crystal hand comes between your legs and you _ gasp _, because it is hot and cold all at once. You love the way the Exarch touches you with reverence. With love. Even when he holds you hard enough to bruise, there is always adoration in the stroke of his hands against you, and when he moves back to press his mouth to your inner thigh, your knees shake against your chest and your cries fill the space between you. 

G’raha makes you come apart with his hands and his teeth and his tongue and you think you have crossed shards again when you see stars beyond the Ocular behind your eyes. There will be new marks - you feel the sweet sting of teeth as he bites your neck, chasing his own stars while you are revelling in yours - but there’s too much love and lust in you to be annoyed with him. Which is, you think, precisely as he has planned. It is a deviousness you can forgive, if only for the possessive pleasure behind each nip of teeth and caress of crystal. Besides, you reason, you _ like _it. 

When you can talk again - and when G’raha has finally let your legs come to rest, nestling himself between them - you exhale loudly and say,

“I think I will… I think I shall come up with better excuses.” 

His delighted laughter is worth, you think, endless amounts of awkward explanations.


End file.
